


Wenn der Wind (Durch die Äste weht)

by Liffis



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, brief mentions of Aramis/Porthos, heavy Athos!angst!, major trigger warnings, tw: allusions to suicide, tw: depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:58:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liffis/pseuds/Liffis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos has a name wrapping across his ribs. It should make him happy.<br/>It doesn't.</p><p>d'Artagnan looks at his soulmate's name, and it makes him sad, he cannot explain it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this has major triggers. Like, a lot of triggers for everything that should not be in a fic that has "soulmate!AU" stamped across: Depression, allusions to suicide.  
> Biggest trigger for depression.  
> Please read with caution!

Ever since he could think, there was a name looped across Athos' ribs, proudly proclaiming Charles d'Artagnan.  
On his good days, Athos likes to think his soulmate is a happy person, boistorous, with a smile across his face, and then Charles would grin and take his hand, and they would walk a journey together, and whatever would come across them would be defeated, because they are not perfect, but they can do this.  
On his bad days, Athos wants to drown in his wine, anything, just so that he does not see this name anymore. There is no way he will not disappoint Charles, there is no possibility Charles will look at him and smile – and Athos is not sure he could actually survive standing in front of his soulmate and see the miniscule drop of his shoulders, or a tick in his lips, all sure signs of disappointment -  
Because if Athos is honest, and underneath all his clothing and his weaponry, stripped of all entitlement either by rank or birth, he is a disappointment. For him, this is a fact: the sun rises, the rivers stream towards the sea, Olivier d'Athos de la Fère is undeserving of his soulmate.  
Undeserving of anything, really, what has he ever done properly? Once, he had asked Aramis, and oh, the sadniss in his longest friend's eyes are another guilt of its own, suffocating Athos. You are a good man, even if you do not believe it, Athos, Aramis had finally answered – and Athos wants to scream. Wants to shake him, his best friend, wants to shake him until his hat falls off and his cross on his body shakes as badly as Athos' hands – Wants to ask him: Are you truly this blind? Because it is so obvious: Athos has failed, and all that he is came by coincidence, by trust that was put upon him too blindly. Surely they all will soon see how wrong they were.  
Aramis will see how he has wasted years upon years with him, how he had misplaced his trust and loyality, how he had given it all to a drunkard who cannot pray enough to be able to give back even a smite of it. One day Aramis will wake, will blink, and with a sudden clarity will know how much he has wasted. How he'll be so much happier without Athos, without someone who is just taking and taking and taking without ever giving enough back.  
And Porthos. Porthos will follow Aramis, surely; he owes Athos nothing, his relationship to Aramis so much stronger in a way Athos will never have a chance of understanding. As loyal as Porthos is, across his heart is Aramis' fine script, and no one else's.  
Athos has no chance of ever keeping some kind of relationship with either of them, of staying friends with them – he may need them, but they don't need him. They have eachother, oh, how much they have eachother.  
When the morning takes too long to rise, the sky a pale, weak grey, the treacherous voices in Athos mind whisper: And how they look at eachother. Athos, why do you think you might ever be worthy of this? Nothing you will do will make you deserve this.  
And he closes his burning eyes, hoping he'll have another bottle left from last night, anything as long as it will smother the worries. He just has to get up, the outside world will not wait for him, they count on him. Treville will expect him, undoubtedly to tell him about the newest plots amidst the Musketeers or even the court. Aramis will expect him, maybe for a swordsfight, and during this his eyes too drawn with worry for him. Porthos will expect him, to laugh and clap on his shoulders.  
He cannot disappoint them.  
Not again.

Ever since he could really think about his Name, d'Artagnan worried - his parents had told him how it would reflect his soulmate's character.  
They thought Charles had a decent soulmate, maybe reserved, more on the quiet side. A true gentlemen!, they had joked and ruffled his hair, sending him to play.  
But when d'Artagnon looked at it, he became sad, his fingers gently touching the Olivier d'Athos de la Fère that barely covers half his side, the letters small and tightly spaced. For everyone else, it is not worrisome, but d'Artagnan cannot read it as anything else but his soulmate being ashamed. Most likely at him, maybe Olivier had heard of the d'Artagnans and had decided he would rather not have anything to do with them – their family was big and widely spaced enough Olivier might have encountered one of them all. What if he had decided he'd rather not be tied to this family? What if he was unwilling to bind himself to a mere farmer?  
But this only kept d'Artagnan awake in the beginning, when he was a mere boy coming back late in the evening, tired from the day's work, jealous of all the boys who walked along the field and laughed at him for working when they could go to school. Oh, how he had been jealous, and how he had worried his soulmate was among those who thought less of him.  
The older he grew the more he realized it was not this. He could not exactly name it, and it was more of a queasiness in his stomach than anything, really, but: his soulmate hadn't wanted to put his name on d'Artagnan. The script was fine, not due to the writer himself having this writing fancy, but it looked like some faint skizzing d'Artagnan's father had done once to estimate the wood for the fence: faint as to be able to be washed off, if only wished thusly. As if his soulmate had not dared to put a stronger, thicker script on him lest d'Artagnan were unable to ignore it if he just wanted to. As if his soulmate did not want to inconvenience him.  
D'Artagnan wished he could feel anything from Olivier, or maybe send anything back – how much he would send him indeed. Love, mostly, and trust, the security how d'Artagnan would never desire to ignore his soulmate, and how he would never begrudge his soulmate the name scrawled across d'Artagnan's own body.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this has been some kind of exercise, but then I saw the lovely comments - thank you two!  
> And for all the niceness: have some more Athos!whump and angst. Because obviously that was the way to go.
> 
> By the way: I would be very glad if someone could point me a way how to wrestle the formatting. I have no idea how to put the cursive in here, and it's driving me nuts!

The man says „Athos“ - and d'Artagnan knows. It settles securely in his body, maybe curls up between his lungs and the bows of his ribs: this is his soulmate.  
And oh, how he had been right, his soulmate was sad – but d'Artagnan could not have known how sad exactly. But now that he has met him, has met Olivier who wants to be called Athos, now d'Artagnan hurts for him. Wishes he could take on the weight that bows his soulmate's shoulders down, wants to bring his fingertips to Olivier's – Athos' temple, would love to close his arms around him and hide him away from the world and the darkness that must haunt him -  
When he answers, he only manages to get out „d'Artagnan“, and his eyes flick up.  
For a second Athos stiffens, but then he forces himself loose again, this time the shoulders drawn up just that bit tighter. In d'Artagnan's belly burns the need to hide this man away from each and every pain – but it's not yet completely clear, Athos' reaction may imply he has d'Artagnan on his body, but it does not necessarily mean the name in front of it is Charles.   
D'Artagnan looks at this man who looks like a king felled by the gods, looking like he's waiting for the last felling blow -  
And he thinks: I do not know you, but still I can promise you I will stay. And he hopes Athos knows this, will always know this, will always be assured that d'Artagnan may be so wildly different and maybe even opposing, yet he'll always stay with him. Will be loyal to Athos – a loyality not just born of the name. If it had been only that, d'Artagnan is quite sure he'd have laughed harshly and would never ever have met Athos just out of sheer spite, to prove he can do it on his own.   
But Athos does not demand.   
Yes, Athos commands they – he, d'Artagnan – follow orders, and sometimes he is jarring, sharp words – but he's also loyal to them and always ready to defend them, always looking out to protect them, always challenging, always trying to shield them and lead them to something better, greater.   
Something he obviously does not see for himself.   
This realisation takes d'Artagnan weeks to get, weeks of training and landing in the mud by Porthos' unstoppable kicks or throws and all of it interspersed with Porthos' wicked and satisfied grin, weeks of Aramis' dry comments and pointed needles weaving through both leather and flesh, weeks of sleeping on lumpy and hard floors, weeks of fighting and the exhilaration of a won fight. During all of this, Athos is there, but yet not. He is there, physically, he is with them, and it is obvious both Porthos and Aramis view him as a friend, as it is obvious Athos obviously reciprocates these feelings.   
But Athos draws back everytime.  
Lips or fingers wrapped around a wine bottle, claiming he did not want to interrupt anything or darken the mood; always walking away into the shadows of the next tavern.  
D'Artagnan would let it go, would grin wryly and agree that yes, this was Athos – but it did not seem to make Athos any happier, it never did. No matter how much wine he drank, it only led to more misery, d'Artagnan knew. Not even the stiffest drink could make Athos smile, not even a loopy smile of someone who had taken a look too deep into his wine glass. Nothing. And the mornings were the worst.  
Whenever d'Artagnan saw Athos in the mornings after an especially heavy drinking, he feared for him. It was like looking at a ghost who had not yet realised he was dead but would do so soon, slipping through the cracks, vanishing like mist in the morning. Slipping through d'Artagnan's fingers.   
D'Artagnan wants to say something, anything, really, but he is missing the words. They are never come smoothly to him like they do to Aramis, nor do they come easily to him like they do to Porthos. He cannot say anything out of fear to make it worse, to be the final push that will send Athos away, either from the Musketeers, or even worse, the push that will send Athos - 

 

At first, Athos wasn't sure – he had taken a look at the youth, his heart strangely thrumming, and when he heard the name, he could only think: Surely not. Surely this young man, d'Artagnan, could not be the d'Artagnan that was inscribed on his body in bold letters.  
But the more he learned to know this man, the more he realised it had to be, it all fit so well, it was like he had imagined his soulmate to be like, in the earlier days when he had been happy. D'Artagnan was exactly like the letters seemed to imply: bold and brash and loud, but with a certain kind of elegance that would grow into something breathtaking.   
Athos wants to drown in wine and never rise again.   
There is no way he could ever do just by him, even the mere thought felt laughable; Athos could never be worth of having d'Artagnan close, even as a friend. Athos is already undeserving of having friends – but his soulmate? It is the height of greed.   
In one of the darker nights, those when he walks among the streets and morbidly wonders which circle of Hell will be the one he'll end up in and if the longest late-night bath in the rivers would change anything about it -  
He stumbles towards a church, and when he kneels in the empty house of God, his fingers shake. It is fitting that he is all alone, the pews haughtily rising over him, towards God, towards the Heavens, reminding him of his place, shaking and freezing on the smooth floors -   
And Athos prays, his whole body wracked with shivering. But it is alright, no one can see this, no one will witness this, no one will see him as the pathetic waste he was – no one but God, and maybe He would listen, Athos prayed He would listen.  
Please, he thinks, please Father, I thank you for the mercy You have put upon my body, and Athos wants to curl up, fingers pressing against the name on his ribs, I thank You for the greatest mercy You have bestowed upon my life, yet I have one more selfish thing to ask of You: Please let him not have my name on him.  
Even the thought feels like a fist curling up in his ribcage, and dimly Athos wonders: is that the pain of imagining d'Artagnan having his name on his ribs? Or the thought of d'Artagnan suddenly not having his name? What would be worse, seeing how he could fail one more person – or the confirment that he truly was unworthy of everything?  
Athos swallows the bile rising in his throat and continues. Please, o God, let him be happy. I only want him to be happy. Please, God, put every trial You laid out for him on my shoulders. I will bear them, as I do Aramis' and Porthos' trials. I will gladly bear all of their trials and all of their pains, as long as they are safe and happy. But him, him I want -  
He bites his lips, bowing his head.  
It is not my place as a mere mortal to ask of You, but please. I will forsake it all as long as he will be happy, as long as he can live on unworried.  
But the church is quiet, the silence suffocating, and Athos rubs his face and rises, and thinks he could cut himself open upon the altar, and even God would find it all lacking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Just a quick PSA: there will be one more chapter after this, but I cannot promise it will be updated as quickly as this story up until now has been. I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo this year, so yeah, to start writing a new story was quite...adventurous.   
> So, yeah, a longer-ish note will follow after the next (last) chapter.

The church doors close quietly – and with them all the weights load themselves back upon Athos' shoulders. His shells are back in place, and as always he swears he will not breathe a word of his breaking to anyone. In a moment of wry irony he wonders who would be the worst to confess to.  
Obviously d'Artagnan is the first his mind snaps to. Oh, his soulmate, how would he look if Athos confessed this? A youth who has to take in the pains of a man who looks – and feels – like he is of age to be a father, how would d'Artagnan react? Surely he would be confused, irritated even, at this prospect. A man of Athos' age – no, not just that, not just mere age, but also a man of Athos' standing, for he had been born a noblemen!, surely a man like that should not be worn like this, dark and gloomy like the worst city streets on a lousy night. It should not be, but Athos is, and he cannot take this to d'Artagnan. What if he infected d'Artagnan with this? With these kind of thoughts? What if it was Athos who would break the hopefullness, the recklessness?   
Or Porthos. Porthos whose grin was even brighter than d'Artagnan's, with his unbreakable hope and belief in the future, who was so fiercely loyal he'd make the world spin around itself if only it was what would aid you as his friend. Porthos, who took wounds meant for you, jumping into battles with a fierce joy, raising spirits – and oh, what would he think if Athos confessed to him. It would remind him of the darker times before, those he never wanted to talk about, no matter how deep he had looked into his wine glass; no matter how relaxed he became in Aramis' proximity, once the talk came upon his past, Porthos froze and refrained from talking.   
Or Aramis, even. Athos' oldest friend, a churchman, and not even to him Athos could be honest. In a way, with him it was the worst. Before having met d'Artagnan, Athos had imagined how it would work like, and those nights he had lain awake, shaking in fear, stomach heaving. Aramis would probably be gentle about it, not saying a word, and his fingers would probably toy with his rosary, and he'd not say a word while Athos talked, and in the end he'd let his rosary still and say -  
Well, what would Aramis say? Nothing? Or maybe he'd express his worries? How sorry he was, maybe? But that was not the worst Athos feared. Maybe Aramis would look at him and see: this was the man he had trusted to have his back for years, to keep his secrets, the man he'd shared years and trust – and wonder if it was rightly placed. Or Aramis would admit there was nothing to Athos, nothing to save or mend.   
Whatever it was, it kept Athos awake, because some naive part of him fiercely wanted to believe that once he had been better. Not exactly nicer, per se, but – in a way better? Less like he was right now; made of black and shards and abysses. And he'd like to believe Aramis had met him back then when he'd been better, and Aramis had stayed, his longest and best friend.   
He could not tell him about the church visits. Not a word. Not a single one. There were no words, because if there were, he'd tell Aramis how they both believed in God, it was just that Aramis' God was forgiving and gentle whereas his was neither; only merciful in the way he was listening to Athos' prayers without outright punishing for praying, greedily wanting at all. 

Athos is slipping through his fingers, d'Artagnan feels it, and a primal part of him quakes in fear, wants to cling to Athos, wants to keep him from going. It always feels as if it is the last time he sees him, as if he'll see him one more time before Athos is gone where d'Artagnan cannot follow.   
And he is, because d'Artagnan cannot follow where Athos has trodden, cannot follow him on his way into the darkness – he would simply lose himself as well without ever helping Athos, and how much he wants to help Athos, in any way that counts, it doesn't matter, d'Artagnan would gladly to it. He would cut the moon out of the sky, would grind it into finest dusts to apply to Athos' wounds, as long as Athos asks -  
But Athos never does.   
D'Artagnan feels like he is suffocating with the knowledge of it, yet he is unable to act. It feels wrong, like he is clinging to Athos, to someone who does not want anything from him, let alone being clung to.  
Athos is slipping away, far, far away, and no matter how fast he runs after him, no matter how hard he holds on and tries, it doesn't matter, it does not matter at all, the darkness in Athos' mind is always faster, always louder, always stronger.   
D'Artagnan fights anyways.   
The small writing right above his heart pulses in the beat drumming through his body, and the words tell him Athos is alive and still there.

**Author's Note:**

> It does seem as if AO3 and I still disagree about formatting, especially with the cursive.  
> No idea how to solve it.


End file.
